


Never Let Me Go

by CallMeDelphine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Domestic Violence, F/M, Heavy Angst, Joffrey is his own warning, Not Kidding Guys It's Sloooooow Burn, POV Multiple, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-01-01 03:33:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12147738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeDelphine/pseuds/CallMeDelphine
Summary: Sansa heard heavy footsteps approaching her and she curled in on herself, a strangled whimper escaping her lips despite her best efforts. Hands—gentler than she expected—lifted her up, and the room spun dizzyingly again. She still had not opened her eyes, afraid she might throw up if she did.Sansa felt when they exited the throne room and she quietly breathed out in relief, resting her head against the Hound’s cool armor.“You can open your eyes, little bird,” the Hound murmured to her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My take on a classic Sansan idea :)
> 
> I'm always super self-conscious before I post a pic so I hope you guys like it! I'm also not used to working with a series that has so much *lore* so please bear with me as I sort through all the material! I'm relatively new to the GOT fandom.

It had been a fortnight since her father’s execution. Sansa was in her chambers, looking blankly out the window. The night sky was dotted with stars and a cool breeze blew against her face. She blocked out the noise from the city below, focusing on pushing her emotions deep, deep down. Slowly, she worked on burying the memories of her family, the memories of her father, of everyone she had lost. The bruises on her arms twinged suddenly and she tried to bury that pain too. Sansa knew that Joffrey would try his hardest to break her, so she had to make herself unbreakable. Her heart was heavy with despair, but she knew she could not let Joffrey win.

She ducked her hand under the collar of her nightgown and ran her fingers over the cuts on her shoulders, courtesy of Ser Meryn. He had hit her yesterday on Joffrey’s orders while the King ranted about Sansa’s disloyalty of some kind or another. She had learned to tune out the words and just hold it together until she got to the safety of her room.

Sansa brought the image of the knight to the forefront of her mind, remembering his movements, the sound of his voice, and willed herself not to be afraid of him. Meryn was no more than Joffrey’s lapdog, doing as the King demanded without a second thought, she told herself. He was spineless and pathetic, and if Sansa didn’t fear him then he had no power over her.

She sighed. Of course, that was easier said than done.

A sharp rapt on the door startled Sansa out of her thoughts. She was not expecting anyone, especially not at this hour.

She went to the door and opened it cautiously.

The Hound stood in the hallway. Sansa kept her face expressionless but her mind was racing. Why was Joffrey’s guard here? She’d only spoken to him a few times; she’d met him only recently, when she had accidently bumped into him in town trying to get away from Ser Ilyn. He had been kind to her, wiping her cheek when Meryn had hit her, but Sansa did not trust him.

“Stop daydreaming girl, let me in. I’m here on the King’s orders.”

Sansa didn’t say anything but opened the door further.

“What does the King want, my lord?” she asked tentatively, hoping her voice wouldn’t betray her fear.

“I’m no lord. And he didn’t share that bit of information with me,” he grunted sarcastically. “Get dressed and come with me.”

He closed the door for her without another word. Her head reeling, Sansa pressed her ear against the cool wood, hearing the Hound’s armor clink on the other side of it. She wasn’t sure why she expected anything else; if Joffrey had told him to fetch her, then he wouldn’t leave until she went with him. Sansa didn’t put it past the Hound to drag her out of the room kicking and screaming, so she decided obedience was the safest route.

She quickly put on a suitable gown, ran a brush through her hair, and stepped into the hall.

The Hound turned around when he heard her approach, and then his eyes trailed down to the cut on her lip. It was almost gone, only a faint line remained, but a pain shot through her as Sansa was reminded of that day.

It had been terrible, the worst thing she had ever seen, her father’s head on that stake. She had wanted to push Joffrey off that bridge, not caring if she went down with him. She had been so close…the only thing that had stopped her was the man standing next to her now.

Why had he done it? Sansa would be inclined to believe that he was only protecting the King’s life…but afterwards, when he gave her the handkerchief…well, she couldn’t make sense of that moment. He had had no reason to be kind to her, but still he had been.

 _It is probably a trap_ , Sansa thought to herself bitterly. These mind games, Meryn and Joffrey tormenting her, it was all a plan to catch her being disloyal, Sansa was sure of it.

Suddenly she heard something and realized the Hound had been talking to her. Sansa looked up at him and saw that he was staring at her with annoyance. When their eyes met, his expression softened.

“I’m sorry my lord, I didn’t hear you,” she said softly. She knew of the Hound’s reputation, and of his short temper, and hoped he would not get angry. He _terrified_ Sansa with his huge frame and crass words. In Sansa’s eyes he was wholly unpredictable, and as such, dangerous.

“I said we are going to the throne room. The King wants to see you there.” The Hound glanced once more at the scar on her lip before starting off in the direction of the throne room, not bothering to check and see if she was following him. Sansa tried to steady her heart, but thoughts of all the terrible things Joffrey might do to her coursed through her mind and she found herself struggling to breathe. She hurried to catch up to him.

“Ah, they’re here!” Joffrey announced when they finally reached the throne room. He opened his arms wide and lazily walked down the steps until he stood face to face with Sansa.

“Your Grace,” Sansa murmured, bowing her head. She glanced quickly around the room and saw that it was empty save for Joffrey and Meryn. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Hound take his usual position by the throne, waiting. It sickened Sansa to see him willingly turn a blind eye to the atrocities of the king. It sickened her that _anyone_ could be so cruel.

Joffrey reached out and took a strand of her red hair in between his fingers. “Such pretty hair,” he said, twisting the strand around his fist and pulling hard. Sansa bit back a cry of pain but couldn’t keep from wincing, and Joffrey laughed and let go, pushing her aside roughly. Sansa stumbled but stayed on her feet, her stomach churning with worry.  

“What has our little traitor guest been up to these past few days?” Joffrey asked no one in particular, walking in a slow circle in front of her. “Ser Meryn, have you seen my betrothed around the castle at all?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Do you believe her absence to be suspicious?” Joffrey asked gleefully.

A wicked smile crossed Meryn’s face. “It’s possible, Your Grace.”

Sansa’s blood ran cold. She took a hasty step forward. “Your Grace, I promise you that I have been doing no—"

“I did not command you to speak, _my lady_ ,” Joffrey spat. Sansa bowed her head, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

 _Don’t do anything stupid_ , she begged herself. _Just stay quiet_. She looked quickly at the Hound and saw him looking at her with a pained expression.

Sansa almost asked herself why he wasn’t doing anything to help before remembering that they were not on the same side. One kindness half a moon ago meant nothing. She tore her eyes away and looked at Joffrey instead.

“It seems our guest still forgets her place. Ser Meryn, why don’t you remind her?” he drawled. “But leave her face. I like her pretty.”

Sansa paled when Meryn stepped forward. She felt a sudden searing pain across her cheek and immediately tasted blood.

Meryn sneered and unsheathed his sword. The hiss of the blade was a promise of pain and it took all of Sansa’s self-control to stay on her feet. She swallowed and said a silent prayer to the gods.

The first blow hit her hard in the stomach. She coughed and doubled over in pain, but kept silent. The next blow landed on her back. She fell to her hands and knees, gasping for breath. She saw Meryn raise his foot and squeezed her eyes shut. He kicked her in the side, sending her sprawling onto her back. Her vision turned black at the edges and the ground beneath her spun. She prayed for unconsciousness to take over but was not granted that small mercy.

She coughed weakly, struggling to turn over to her side.

“Your Grace, I believe the girl has had enough,” she faintly heard the Hound say.

“Hmm, you might be right. It’s no fun punishing her if she’s barely awake to feel it,” Joffrey said carelessly. “Hound, take her back to her room.”

Sansa heard heavy footsteps approaching her and she curled in on herself, a strangled whimper escaping her lips despite her best efforts. Hands—gentler than she expected—lifted her up, and the room spun dizzyingly again. She still had not opened her eyes, afraid she might throw up if she did.

Sansa felt when they exited the throne room and she quietly breathed out in relief, resting her head against the Hound’s cool armor.

“You can open your eyes, little bird,” the Hound murmured to her. The vibrations from his voice traveled down to her cheek and she opened her eyes, realizing in horror what she had been doing. Quickly she pulled back as far as she could without falling out of his arms. She’d lost herself for a moment.

It wouldn’t happen again. A Stark, leaning against a Lannister dog for support! What a pitiful sight she must be. She struggled against the darkness threatening to overpower her and wished the Hound would walk faster. She didn’t trust him enough to pass out in his arms, but she was dangerously close to unconsciousness now. The pain was enveloping her from every direction and she could barely differentiate which way was up or down.

Finally, they reached Sansa’s room and he set her gently down on the bed. Sansa coughed into her hand and saw blood. She lifted her eyes and saw the Hound walk away, relieved that he was finally leaving.

Except he didn’t leave. He walked over to the small table that held a water pitcher, and poured some water on a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. He went back to her and she flinched, wishing more than anything that she could be alone. She wanted Shae there with her, she wished her head didn’t spin, she wished she were anything but King’s Landing.

“Little bird, I won’t hurt you,” the Hound said before dabbing at the blood on Sansa’s face with the wet cloth. She winced again at the sting but let him wipe away the blood.

“Try to get some sleep.”

Sansa watched him leave and close the door behind himself. The emptiness of the room rang in her ears and she closed her eyes again, fighting back the tears that stung them.

*

Sansa woke to Shae calling her name.

“My lady, it’s time to wake,” she said, shaking Sansa gently.

“What time is it?” Sansa asked, still half-asleep.

“It’s almost noon.”

Sansa sat up in the bed and immediately cried out in pain. Shae rushed to her side and helped her stand, but Sansa’s legs were not cooperating.

Her fingers fumbled with the ties at the front of her dress and she grew angry, huffing until Shae’s cool hands steadied her own.

“Let me,” she said, deftly unknotting the strings and pulling back the dress. Sansa stood up slightly so that she could yank up her nightgown.

“Oh gods,” she whispered, looking down at her bare legs and stomach. Large, purple bruises blossomed over her pale skin. Even taking a breath hurt.

Suddenly she heard a knock.

“It’s me, little bird,” a voice called gruffly through the door. Sansa looked at Shae, eyes wide with panic, and then down at her undressed body.

“The Hound,” she whispered.

When there was no response, he rapped on the door a second time.

“I’ll tell him you’re ill,” Shae nodded firmly, striding across the room. Sansa hurried to cover herself with the nightgown but the quick movements were too painful and she cried out again.

At her cry, the Hound threw open the door and drew his sword. He looked wildly around the room, as if expecting a threat, before he realized there was none.

“My lord!” Sansa gasped, scrambling to cover herself. “I—I did not give you permission to enter!”

The Hound’s eyes flitted to her and widened almost imperceptibly when he saw the bruises. He turned around quickly, trying to give her some privacy.

“Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I heard you shout, thought there was trouble.”

“There’s no trouble, my lord. Kindly leave!” she snapped, grabbing the blankets from the bed to cover her legs.

He sheathed his sword and turned to Shae.

“Aye, I’ll wait outside then,” he said brusquely.

*

Shae and Sansa stared wordlessly at each other. Sansa felt a heat creep up her neck and the embarrassment almost drowned her.

“Shae, I’d like it if you slept with me in my chambers from now on,” Sansa said shakily, her heart pounding after what had just happened.

“Of course,” Shae said. She helped Sansa get dressed and then led her slowly to the door.

Walking was agonizing. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest. She hoped that whatever the Hound had to say would be quick.

Shae led Sansa out to the hallway where the Hound sat waiting for her on a bench near the door.

“Just knock on the wall when you’re finished and I’ll help you inside,” Shae said before stepping back inside the room and closing the door.

Sansa shook uncertainly on her feet and grabbed the wall for support. The Hound stood and offered a hand.

“Little bird, let me help you.”

“No my lord, I’m quite alright. What did you wish to tell me?” she asked.

The Hound looked at her doubtfully but didn’t try to intervene as she shakily made her way to the bench and sat down. She exhaled slowly and looked up at the Hound, who was still standing. She noticed his eyes trail downward over to her stomach. She wanted to slap him, to tell him to stop staring, that she already knew how terrible she looked with bruises the size of her hand, that she knew his games so he didn’t have to act like he cared. Instead, she wrapped her arms loosely around her body and waited for him to speak.

“The King sent me with orders to have you brought to the throne room again tomorrow evening,” he rasped, his eyes on hers.

She heard the words but she didn’t want to believe them. How could Joffrey want her again so soon? Sansa just stared at the Hound wordlessly. She couldn’t bring herself to speak because she knew if she opened her mouth then she would start screaming and crying, and none of that would help her. The Hound looked back at her but his brows furrowed in what looked like concern. What else was he expecting? For her to protest? To cry? No, it was better that she sat still as stone because then she could not break.

The silence stretched on for a full minute before Sansa spoke.

“I see. Thank you for bringing me this news, my lord. I will see you tomorrow evening then. Please excuse me.”

She knocked on the wall and struggled to her feet without waiting for his answer. She felt his eyes on her and her skin itched.

Once she was in the safety of her chambers, Sansa stripped back down to her nightgown and crept under the bed covers, not fighting the tears this time as they came, hot and heavy, soaking her pillow.

*

When she opened her eyes again, it was dark. Sansa looked around the room and saw Shae sleeping next to her on her cot.

The room felt suffocating hot. Sansa needed fresh air desperately.

She dug through her drawer and pulled out a wrap dress that she could wear without Shae’s help, for she didn’t want to wake her. She slipped on her shoes and quietly crept out of the room, her body still very sore but a little better than that morning. At least she could somewhat walk upright now.

Sansa made her way down the stairs and outside into the fresh night air. She wandered over to the gardens and sat down on one of the benches, looking out to the starry sky.

 _How beautiful it is here, when there’s no one around_ , she sighed. She pulled her knees up onto the bench and hugged them to her chest, letting herself cry once more.

“Little bird,” she heard behind her. Her head whipped around and she saw the Hound.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, quickly wiping her tears away. It was pointless though; he had already seen her crying.

“I could ask you the same,” he grunted, sitting down next to her on the bench. She scooted away, uneasy. He was in full armor, as usual, with his sword on his hip. Sansa looked at him silently, waiting for an answer, until he sighed.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said.

Was he drunk? That was the last thing Sansa wanted, to be alone with a drunk Hound.

But she couldn’t smell any wine, which didn’t make her feel any safer, oddly enough.

She huffed and put her chin on her knees. “I needed air.”

She was still uneasy, having the Hound so near. It wasn’t that he was sitting too close to her—several people could have fit in the space between them—but the _idea_ of him was unsetting to her. Where did his morals lie, if he had any? He didn’t seem crazy about the King, despite the fact that he followed every order. He could kill her right here and no one would care.

The loneliness inside of her heart reached a crescendo and she sat there in silence, staring at the moon and feeling utterly alone in the world.

She shivered in the cool night air.

“It’s cold, little bird, I’ll take you back to your room,” the Hound said after some time.

“No,” she said. “I’d like to stay here a little while longer.”

“It’s not safe,” he said. “There could be bloody killers hiding in those trees.”

“It’s not safe anywhere,” Sansa said morosely, watching the flowers in the garden stir gently with the breeze.

The Hound turned to look at her, and this time Sansa could almost believe that his concern was real.

She had been treated like a ghost ever since she came to King’s Landing; people avoided her like the plague. Shae was the closest thing she had to a friend. It would be lovely to believe that anyone—even the Hound—cared, but it would also be naïve and foolish. She was no guest here, she was a prisoner. The fewer people she talked to, the more likely she could survive.

“I’m taking you back,” he said firmly, getting to his feet. Sansa flinched at the sudden movement. He looked more fearsome in the moonlight somehow, more intimidating.

“I’m not going with you, my lord,” she said, equally as determined.

Something akin to amusement flitted across the Hound’s face.

“Aye, yes you are little bird. I’m not leaving you out here to catch cold and die.”

“I wasn’t aware that was your duty, my lord,” Sansa said dryly.

The Hound leaned down without so much as a warning and lifted Sansa up like she weighed nothing at all. She shrieked in fear, not expecting to be _manhandled_ , and the Hound scowled at her as he walked.

“Keep bloody quiet little bird, do you want the whole castle to wake up?”

“My lord, put me down,” Sansa insisted, the panic rising in her throat. She felt faint, like she couldn’t take enough breaths. She wanted to claw her way out of her skin. “ _Please.”_

She must have looked petrified because he stopped walking.

“Little bird, this is for your own good. You’ve enemies all over this castle.”

“Yes,” Sansa breathed. “And you’re one of them.”

To her surprise, he shook his head once.

“No little bird. I’m not one of them.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa was huddled in front of Joffrey's fireplace. The Hound had come to her room an hour earlier to inform her that the King wished to see her. An hour later he returned to escort her to Joffrey's chambers. 

She waited for him to come, that familiar bite of fear inside of her roiling in her stomach. She furiously blinked back the tears that came insistently to her eyes. 

"Will he be long, my lord?" Sansa asked the Hound, who was standing against the wall by the door. 

"Don't know," he grunted. 

She looked uneasily into the flames and shivered, despite the air by the fireplace being warm. 

“Are you cold?” he asked her, making as if to reach for his cloak. What was his obsession with checking on her every second? It sent mixed messages and Sansa didn’t know what to make of them.

"No, I'm just—no my lord, I’m fine." 

Sansa bit her lip. She had to be careful about what she said. She’d almost forgotten herself again. It wouldn't do to tell the King's main guard how she felt. They were all waiting to pounce, so Sansa couldn't give them a reason to act. 

She heard footsteps in the hallway and then Joffrey strode grandly into the room, his cloak billowing behind him. 

"Ah, Lady Sansa, beautiful as ever," he sneered. Sansa swallowed the bile rising in her throat and bowed.

"Your Grace, you wished to see me?"

"Yes. I wanted to see how you were doing after your last... _lesson_ ," he said, reclining lazily on the bed. 

"Your Grace, thank you for your concern," she began in a nervous voice. "I am doing we—"

"No you stupid girl, if I wanted to hear you blather I wouldn't have summoned you."

Sansa's head swam. Why _had_ he summoned her? This was obviously a game to him but she didn't see where it was going. Meryn wasn't in the room and Joffrey never hit her himself, so what was going to happen to her?

Her eyes shifted uneasily to the Hound and her heart sank with the dawning realization. If Joffrey ordered him to hit her, she wasn't sure she could take it. The Hound was double Meryn's size! Her face twisted in fear and she clutched at her stomach. 

"I'm sorry Your Grace, I don't understand," Sansa said softly. 

"Take off your clothes." 

The demand hung in the air and time seemed to stand still. Sansa's eyes widened.

But they weren't married yet, surely he couldn't intend to do... _that_. Even Cersei had been careful to preserve Sansa’s honor.

"Your Grace, I—"

Joffrey jumped out of the bed so suddenly Sansa flinched. He walked to her until they stood face to face.

"I said _take off your clothes_ ," he growled in a dangerously low voice. She heard the clink of armor and looked to her left. The Hound was leaving, his hand on the doorknob. 

"Stop," Joffrey ordered without turning around. A terrible smile crept to his lips. Sansa's blood turned to ice when she understood what Joffrey intended to do. 

"Your Grace, please!" Sansa cried, her voice audibly shaking now. Over Joffrey's shoulder, she saw the Hound close his eyes regretfully and resume his former position slowly. Although he pointedly averted his eyes, Sansa wanted to beat him until her fists bled. How could he just stand there and allow this? What kind a spineless man was he? If he truly cared, he wouldn’t ask empty questions about whether she was cold. He would _do something_.

In the back of her mind, Sansa knew he couldn’t really do anything without risk being beheaded. But in the moment, it was easier to blame him than to accept her violation.

"If you don't take off that pretty dress right now, I'm going to rip it off, and then I'm going to parade you through this castle until everyone has seen you naked," Joffrey threatened. 

Tears spilled over her cheeks and she felt a rush of heat in her chest. As slow as she dared, she began unlacing her dress. 

"Move faster!" Joffrey yanked his dagger from his belt and slashed through the remaining laces. Part of the blade caught Sansa’s skin and she flinched away but Joffrey roughly held her in place. The sound of Joffrey sheathing his dagger echoed loudly in Sansa's ears, and in the corner of her eyes she saw that the Hound was still looking at the opposite wall.

The shredded dress pooled at her feet and Sansa stood in her white shift, covering her chest with her arms and shivering. 

"You won't need this either!" the King exclaimed gleefully, grabbing the front of the shift and ripping it in two. 

Sansa desperately held the fabric together, her face red hot with shame. Her sobs reverberated loudly through the quiet room and she wanted so badly to disappear right then. As if to add to her humiliation, the King ordered the Hound come hold her still. Sansa tried to ignore the sound of his armor as he walked closer, her panic rising. 

"Please Your Grace, don't!" she begged, tightening her grip on the shift when Joffrey tried to pry it from her hands. 

"You will listen to your King," he spat, emphasizing each word with a pull until finally he ripped the shift off her. 

Sansa stood there in her smallclothes, desperately wrapping her arms around her. Goosebumps covered every inch of her skin. Joffrey ran his eyes over her still form and nodded appreciatively.

She felt the Hound’s presence behind her, waiting. Joffrey nodded again, this time at him, and next thing she knew, the Hound’s arms were around her, his hands grabbing her wrists and pinning them behind her. She immediately let go of all control and screamed, thrashing wildly in his grip.

“Hold her tight, dog. If she breaks free I’ll have your head,” Joffrey said. The Hound’s grip tightened, but not enough to bruise. Sansa sobbed openly, cringing away when Joffrey reached out to touch the faded bruises on her stomach. He pinched the cuts on her arm cruelly, laughing when she shrieked in pain.

“A little boring when there’s no audience, don’t you think?” he asked the Hound.

“Aye, Your Grace,” the Hound said. Sansa twitched, pins and needles filling her arms, and his hands tightened again. She sagged in his grip and would have collapsed on the floor had it not been for him holding her up.

“Get out of my sight,” Joffrey spat at her, whirling on his heel and leaving the room.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the Hound let go and all the feeling rushed back into Sansa’s arms. She fell to her knees and gathered the ruined dress to her body, fresh sobs wracking through her body.

The Hound hoisted her up to her feet and she struggled to make sense of the mess of fabric so she could leave the King’s room with some dignity intact. He glanced quickly at her wrists but didn’t look at her otherwise, much to Sansa’s relief.

“You’re bleeding, little bird,” he rasped, making to reach for her shoulder where Joffrey had cut her, but stopped midway when he saw her flinch.

He removed his cloak and she stiffened when he disappeared behind her. Then she felt the weight of the fabric around her shoulders and instinctively tightened it around herself.

“Let’s go, little bird.”

She avoided eye contact and let him lead her back to her room.

*

Sansa went straight to the bed and curled up on it, not even bothering to wait for the Hound to leave the room. There was a pause before he closed the door, almost as if he was hesitating, but then he finally left. The door closed with a soft click behind him. Then she only sound was Shae’s even breathing. She was asleep on the chair and Sansa’ heart twisted when she realized she had been waiting for her.

Sansa got up and draped a blanket over Shae’s sleeping form.

She lay back down before realizing she still had the cloak wrapped around her. She pushed it away in disgust. The cold air bit at her exposed skin, but she was too tired to dig out the blankets from underneath her. After several minutes, her eyes trailed to the cloak still by her side.

Why had he done that? Could it be possible that he actually cared somewhat about her wellbeing? Sansa had expected him to do something when Joffrey was stripping her down, but in truth, what could he have done without losing his head? Sansa may be in a precarious position, trying to win the King’s favor, but so was the Hound. One wrong move and Joffrey could have him executed on a whim. Perhaps the cloak was his way of telling her that she disagreed with the King.

She wrapped it around herself again and drifted off to sleep.

*

Light streamed in from the open window, waking Sansa up gently. Shae wasn’t there, but the blanket that Sansa had draped over her was neatly folded and placed on the chair.

Sansa sat up slowly in the bed and stared out at the room. Her shoulder stung and she remembered that she had been bleeding. She wet a towel and dabbed at the caked blood, wincing when the water stung. She wrapped a clean strip of linen around it and put on a new dress.

Sansa was sitting in front of the mirror brushing her hair when someone knocked.

“Come in,” she answered, expecting to see Shae.

The Hound opened the door. Sansa blushed.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Little bird, I came to get my cloak.”

Sansa looked over to the bed and the Hound’s eyes followed hers. He made to go get it but she stood up and retrieved it for him.

“I—wanted to thank you, my lord,” Sansa said quietly, keeping her eyes on the cloak as she folded it for him. She felt the heat on her cheeks and silently prayed that he couldn’t see it.

“No need,” he said gruffly. She walked back to the door and held out the cloak. He reached out to take it, his hand accidentally bumping hers. Sansa blushed deeper and kept her eyes down.

“Little bird, show me your arms,” he said unexpectedly. Sansa looked up in surprise, the questions building on her lips. She opened her mouth to ask, but decided against it and pulled her sleeves up to her elbows. The Hound grabbed her left arm and looked at her wrist, turning it over. Then he let go and nodded, his lips pressed tightly together. He left without another word and the room was once again quiet.

Sansa sat back down in front of the mirror. Her head was swimming. She couldn’t understand why she had reacted that way. The Hound was _not_ her friend, and the only thing she should feel when she saw him was mistrust. So why was there the faintest flutter in her body when she saw him? Why did the blood rush to her face for him?

Her skin burned where he had held her but it wasn’t unpleasant.

_What was he looking for?_ she wondered.

She trailed her hand lightly over her left arm, remembering how warm his hand had been against her skin.

*

The next few days passed without event. Sansa’s bruises slowly healed and she started taking walks around the castle.

Sansa had been walking down the stairs from her chambers she saw the Hound coming up. He looked like he was in a hurry. She made to step past him but he blocked her way.

“I was coming to get you, little bird.”

_No, no, no, not today, please._

“Why, my lord?” she asked, staring at the worn stone steps so her eyes couldn’t betray any fear.

“The King is seeing the Princess Myrcella off to Dorne at the docks. He sent for you.”

Sansa nodded and followed him out to the front gardens where the escort was waiting.

*

Sansa had never cared much for the Princess, or for any member of Joffrey’s family, really. She feared the King and Cersei, but only spoke a handful of times to Myrcella and Tommen. The farewell seemed to drag on forever, and Sansa was relieved when the guards and knights finally prepared to head back to the castle.

They were making their way through Flea Bottom when it happened.

Someone threw a cow pie at Joffrey and all hell broke loose. Everything descended into chaos and somehow Sansa was separated from the rest of the escorts. She grabbed onto the handmaiden that was accompanying her in fear, but the crowds pressed in on them and their hands slipped apart. Sansa panicked and called out for anyone to hear, but her cry was swallowed up by the riot.

Someone pressed her into a wall so hard she couldn’t breathe and she struggled to escape. When she saw an alleyway up ahead, she fought her way through the tightly-packed bodies and ran through it, racking her brain to remember the way back to the castle.

Her heart pounded and her legs cried out in protest but she kept running, looking for an opening back to the main road so she could rejoin the royal escort.

“Ah!”

Someone grabbed her from behind and dragged her backwards.

“Let me go!” she screamed, scratching at the arms around her. Her assailant dropped her onto a bundle of hay and clambered on top of her.

“Ever been fucked before, little girl?” he leered in her ear. His breathe was hot and heavy and Sansa’s blood froze in her veins.

“Get off!” she cried, thrashing underneath him. Three others emerged from behind and grabbed her arms and legs, holding them wide apart. “No! No! You can’t!”

The man who caught her untied his breeches and shoved his hands between her legs, fumbling awkwardly to get her dress out of the way. Sansa fought harder against the arms restraining her but it was no use.

_They’re too strong_ , she realized. She’d known that already, but the reality of the situation sunk into her with each passing second. The hands on her body were tight enough to bruise and although she tried as hard as she could, she couldn’t squeeze her legs together.

The man finished pushing her skirts up and settled on top of her again, his weight crushing her. She sobbed and screwed her eyes shut, the implications of this moment weighing down on her alongside the man.

She heard more heavy footsteps— _Gods, how many are there?_ she thought, panicking _—_ and then heard a sword being drawn. The man on top of her grunted and fell to her side with a heavy thud. Sansa cautiously opened her eyes.

The Hound towered over her, his sword dripping with blood. Immediately, the men holding her down let go and tried to run, but the Hound pulled in the nearest one and ran the sword through his stomach. He dropped the screaming man and thrust through the back of another one, kicking him out of the way when he collapsed motionless to the ground. The Hound grabbed the last one, running his sword through his neck in one clean motion. Sansa lay motionless on the hay, her heart racing as she watched him cut down the men like flies.

“You’re alright now, little bird, you’re all right,” the Hound said, sheathing his sword. He reached out her hand and she took it, eyes wide with fear. He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. Sansa tried not to think of anything, tried to lose herself in the even rhythm of the Hound’s steps.

“Little bird, I can feel your heart beating through my armor.”

It wasn’t a question, but he waited as if he expected a response.

“I—I’m sorry, Ser. I was separated from everyone, I thought I might find my way back but then they found me…” Her voice was muffled against his armor but she knew he heard because of the way his arms wrapped tighter around her legs, as if to prevent anyone else from grabbing her.

“Did they hurt you?” he growled.

“No, my lord,” Sansa said in a small voice, understanding his real question. She was still shaking and took a deep breathe to try to calm herself.

In her peripheral vision, she saw a man charge at them and she grabbed at the Hound’s belt in alarm. The Hound tensed beneath her and shoved the man’s head violently against a wall. Sansa closed her eyes at the explosion of red and instead tried to shift into a less painful position—the Hound’s armor dug into her stomach, where the bruises were still healing.

“What are you doing?” he asked, feeling her movements. She stilled at his words.

“Nothing, my lord.”

Gods, she was so scared. She watched the road anxiously, expecting someone to attack them again. She knew the Hound wouldn’t be able to draw his sword in time because of her, but selfishly she didn’t ask him to put her down. She felt safe like this, off the ground and in his arms.

_Where did that come from?_ she asked herself, bringing a hand to her forehead. Safe in his arms? Could she really expect to be safe there? This man worked for the very people that killed her father and kept her prisoner.

_But he saved you_ , a small voice in the back of her mind reminded her.

After what felt like eternity, they made it back to the castle. The Hound set her down on a bench and handmaidens immediately swarmed around her, dabbing at the blood on her face, fretting over the bruises blossoming on her wrists.

“Are you hurt, my lady?” Tyrion asked, rushing to her side. Sansa shook her head weakly.

“Little bird is bleeding. Get her back to her cage, and see to that cut,” the Hound ordered before stomping off.

“Good work Clegane,” Tyrion called after him.

The Hound stopped and turned, a look of contempt on his face.

“I don’t do it for you,” he spat.

*

_Then who did he do it for?_ Sansa wondered, sitting at the mirror in her room.

She poked gently at a bruise on her cheek that she didn’t even remember getting.

She had gleaned from the gossiping handmaidens in the halls that Joffrey and Tyrion had had a tense moment regarding her whereabouts that day. Apparently, Joffrey had not given the order for a search party to find her. That meant the Hound had acted of his own accord. If Sansa had not been so valuable to Cersei, the Hound might have been killed for refusing to obey orders. As it was, Joffrey was irate with him, but Sansa knew the irritation would pass. The Hound was the best warrior in King’s Landing; Joffrey needed him.

Sansa stared at her reflection in the mirror. She wanted so badly to be courageous like her Arya and her brothers, but in her heart she felt like a coward, crying and running away from her problems. She didn’t know how to be brave. She didn’t know how to survive. Her antics had gotten her thus far, but they could backfire on her at any moment, depending precariously on Joffrey’s fickle moods. She wanted to get out of King’s Landing and back to Winterfell but she didn’t know _how._ She had no friends here, expect for Shae, the only person Sansa trusted. 

Sansa closed her eyes and remembered the way it had felt to have the Hound’s arms wrapped protectively around her.

_Not protectively, you silly girl. He was doing his job._

Even if he had acted out of orders, surely he knew how valuable Sansa was to King’s Landing. She was their only leverage. The Hound had to know this.

_I probably just don’t understand the whole story. I’m sure he benefits somehow from all of this._

Not quite believing what she was telling herself, Sansa crawled under the covers of her bed and blew out the candle by her side. The room faded to darkness and eventually she was able to fall asleep to twisted dreams that left her feeling more tired when she woke up the next morning.


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor stomped angrily through the halls towards his room, his mind a blur of thoughts. He hadn’t been able to get the riot out of his mind, although days had passed since then.

He thought of the little bird lying there on the hay, looking like she was at a crossroads between defiance and acceptance. He was so furious he had almost seen red. Those men—if you could even call them that—had stood no chance against his sword and his fury.

He could see it clearly now, as if it was happening right then instead of days ago.

He had grabbed her and thrown her over his shoulder so quickly he’d been sure she’d protest, chirp that it was improper, but she had been so quiet that if it wasn’t for the rapid beat of her heart against his back, he’d have thought she was dead.

She didn’t complain once on the way back to the castle, although Sandor could tell by her incessant wiggling that he was probably hurting her bruises. He didn’t dare to put her down though. He needed to get her out of there as quickly as he could.

Sandor had seen the man charging at them long before the little bird had grabbed his belt, but a part of him swelled in satisfaction that she had turned to him for comfort and safety.

_Of course she bloody turned to you, you stupid dog. You’re the only thing between her and more rapists coming after her._

Sandor stood before the door to his chambers, sighing heavily before going inside.

He unfasted his armor quickly—years of not having a squire made him quite quick at it—and he lay down on the bed despite it being midday.

That look of sheer, unbridled terror on the little bird’s face was something he hadn’t seen in a while, not since she had learned to wear a mask to hide her true thoughts. That look had made Sandor realize that he didn’t really know what she’d been thinking for a while now. He didn’t know if he should be proud that the little bird was adapting to living in the lion’s den, or if he should be worried.

She was a far cry from the wide-eyed, innocent girl she had been, full of ridiculous ideas about kings and knights and castles. Sandor used to despise being around her because he knew that all things pure were eventually dirtied, and he didn’t want to be around to see something so gentle crumble. But now he didn’t want to let her out of his sight, knowing that every time he did, she returned a little more battered than before.

A soft tap on the door rattled him out of his thoughts. Who in the seven bloody hells would be visiting him right now?

“Door’s open,” he grunted, not moving off the bed.

He heard the door creak open and looked up to see who was disturbing him.

His curses died in his throat when he saw who it was.

The little bird stood awkwardly by the door before turning to close it. He watched her bolt it, confusion seeping across his face, sitting there in silence like a gaping fool.

_Say something, you idiot._

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

_Something that won’t scare her away!_

He stared at her while she seemed to collect her thoughts. Her red hair tumbled loosely over her shoulders and she wore a simple gray dress. She could be wearing beggar’s rags, Sandor thought, and she’d still look as beautiful as she does now.

She chewed her lip uneasily and Sandor yearned to know what she had come to say, although he forced himself to stay quiet.

“I heard what happened the day of the riot,” she finally began after a silence that felt like an eternity. “That the King was unwilling to send someone to find me.”

_The King,_ he scoffed. _So proper all the time._

She raised her eyes to meet his from across the room. “Thank you, my lord,” she said with such sincerity that Sandor felt a pang go through his body. How starved for kindness was she that she willingly came into his chambers, alone?

“You don’t have to thank me, girl,” he said, standing up from the bed. He noted the way her eyes traveled down his full height before returning to his face. He let her look at him, waiting for the revulsion that would no doubt come, just like with everyone else. He waited and waited but she just had the same look of gratitude. No pity, no disgust. His eyes widened slightly in surprise and then it was he who had to look away from her burning gaze.

She paused for a moment and then hesitantly crossed the distance between them until only a foot of space remained. Sandor took one step back.

“What are you doing?” he asked. How he longed to know what she was thinking, what was going on in that pretty little head.

He was not expecting her to reach out and put one hand on his forearm.

“Yes I do, my lord,” she said softly, looking down at her hand as if she too couldn’t believe what she was doing. She lifted her eyes back to his. “I am grateful for all of the ways you have helped me.

So many bleeding courtesies. He knew she knew that he hated all the damn titles she kept chirping at him.

“I’m no lord,” he repeated for the hundredth time.

The moment was tense and awkward and it felt like neither of them knew what to say. The little bird lifted her hand from his arm and he immediately felt the absence of it, his skin feeling cold where her warmth had been.

She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eyes and Sandor got a good look at the bruises on her face. His blood boiled again at the thought of those filthy animals putting their hands on her, and Sandor almost wished they were still alive so that he could kill them again.

He raised a hand and his heart twisted when he saw her flinch and look away.

“I won’t hurt you, little bird,” he murmured. Her eyes flitted back to his.

He brushed the back of his hand against the purple spots on her cheek and she shivered, goosebumps following his touch. Her skin was snow white and just as soft and she closed her eyes, leaning slightly into his hand.

There was a sharp rap on the door and the little bird jerked violently out of his hand, whipping around to look at the door and then turning back to him with wide eyes.

“Clegane, it’s Tyrion,” came a muffled voice. “May I come in?”

“Get under the bed,” he said quickly in a low voice, gently pushing her down. She dropped without hesitation and crawled under the bed. Sandor made sure the bed skirts covered her fully before turning his attention back to the door.

“Coming,” he growled, unbolting the door.

“What do you want, _Imp_?” he asked. “I’m not working today, in case you didn’t notice, so this better be bloody important.”

“It is,” Tyrion said. “It seems as though the Stark girl is missing.”

_The Stark girl has a name_ , he growled to himself, but didn’t dare say a word.

“What do you bloody mean, missing? It’s the middle of the damn day. Maybe she went outside to take a piss.”

Tyrion shook his head. “Colorful language as always, Hound. The King sent Meryn to her chambers to summon her and he found it empty.”

“What the fuck is the point of telling me this?”

Tyrion exhaled sharply through his nose before glaring at Sandor. “Have you _seen her_ , Clegane _?_ ”

“No, I haven’t. Am I supposed to watch her all hours of the day? I’m not her damned nanny,” Sandor snarled at the man, eager for him to leave. So far the little bird hadn’t made any sounds but the faster he could get rid of Tyrion the better it would be for all of them.

“I know you care about the girl, Hound, even if you pretend like you don’t,” Tyrion said, exasperation clear on his face. “See that she’s found safely.”

Without waiting for another word, Tyrion spun on his heel and walked briskly down the hall. Sandor watched him leave, making sure he was out of earshot of the door before closing it quickly.

“Damned imp,” he cursed under his breath before striding to the bed and lifting the bed skirts.

The little bird was wedged uncomfortably under the bed frame, her auburn hair pooling on the floor. She looked up at the sudden influx of light and Sandor saw the questions in her eyes, though she remained silent.

“He’s gone, little bird,” he said, holding out a hand to her. She hesitated for a brief second before putting her hand in his and letting him pull her up.  

She got to her feet gracefully and smoothed out her dress, brushing off the dust. Sandor reached out and plucked a dust bunny from her hair. She watched it drift languidly to the floor before looking up at him again.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You should get back to your room now, little bird,” Sandor said gruffly, looking around the room to make sure there was no evidence of her presence. “They’re looking for you, you know.”

She paled slightly at that, no doubt knowing Joffrey wanted to cause her more pain. Sandor wanted nothing more than to kill everyone who wanted to lay a hand on her. This lion’s den was no place for a wolf.

But he could do nothing for her here, not without losing his own head—a fact that pained him—and he was no use to her dead. He could get her out of here though, away from King’s Landing. He could take her home and protect her there. She already knew he was a skilled warrior.

_Like she’d go anywhere with the likes of you, dog. She’s here in your room right now because of necessity. She needs you to survive in this hellhole._

“I’m sorry to have caused you trouble, my lord,” the little bird said, bowing her head in farewell. She placed her ear to the door and then gave him one more glance before leaving his room. The air stirred and he smelled lemons and mint.

The room seemed too big, too quiet, without her in it.

_Don’t get used to it. It’s likely the first and last time she’ll ever step into your room again, idiot._

His heart skipped a beat at the thought of the little bird in his room again, in his bed—

He growled and shot to his feet. He had done many terrible things throughout his life, yes, but he’d be damned before he hurt her. He’d seen the way the men here had taken away her choices, her freedoms—he wasn’t about to be another one of them. If, by some miracle, the little bird trusted him enough to talk to him again when they were alone, then he refused to make her regret it by forcing her.

Sandor itched to release the tension in his body. He shuffled around his room for a few minutes, deliberating, before grabbing his helmet and stomping off to the training pit. Maybe swinging his sword around for a few hours will make him feel better about the fact that he’s a useless shit who can’t protect the little bird from the brat who calls himself the king.

*

Sandor wandered the halls that evening, making fast-paced loops around the castle like a restless dog. He was just rounding the corner and passing his room for the third time when he heard a faint scream.

He’d know that voice anywhere.

He took off running towards the sound of her distress, vaguely registering that it came from the direction of the throne room.

Sandor drew his sword and burst through the doors.

He stopped short when he saw the king sitting on his throne, lazily watching the scene before him. Sandor gripped the hilt of his sword, white-knuckled, the only thing stopping him from killing every damn man in the room the look on the little bird’s face when she turned around to see who had entered. She locked eyes with him and shook her head almost imperceptibly, almost like a warning. She turned her head back quickly and returned her eyes to the polished stone floor.

She was on her knees before the throne, the back of her dress ripped open. She clutched what remained of it to her chest, but this time Joffrey was not interested in disrobing her. Meryn towered over her shaking form, his sword raised and ready to strike again on Joffrey’s orders. The milky-white skin of her back was covered in angry red welts and blood trickled down to the fabric below. Her eyes were red-rimmed with tears and she let them fall freely. There was no point in trying to cover them up now, not when doing so would only prolong her torture.

Joffrey nodded to Meryn and he swung the sword down again. The flat of the blade slapped again the little bird’s back and the sound resonated across the quiet room. She bit her lip not to scream, but a small whimper slipped past her teeth. Another bright red mark formed on top of the web of swollen cuts. She shook with the strain of remaining upright and Sandor saw how close she was to collapsing. He had to step in and do something—

“What is the meaning of this?” a voice behind Sandor demanded. He turned and saw Tyrion stride past him, Bronn following behind. “What kind of a knight hits a helpless girl?” he spat.

“The kind who listens to his King,” Meryn fired back.

Sandor stepped forward while the two of them argued, tuning out their words. He kept walking until he was right behind the little bird, until he could see her tensed and afraid, waiting for the outcome of the disagreement between the two men standing over her. Sandor wrapped his hand around her upper arm and she flinched so violently Sandor almost lost hold of her.

“Up you get, come on,” he insisted, pulling at her arm. She shakily got her feet and tried to steady herself.

“Hound! What are you doing?” Joffrey suddenly shouted. Tyrion and Meryn immediately stopped mid-sentence, as if just realizing they were not alone. They turned to look at Sandor, Tyrion confused and Meryn grinning with pleasure.

Sandor looked down at the girl swaying dangerously on her feet and knew he had to think fast.

“I’m taking her to the maester,” he grunted. “These cuts might get infected.”

There was a pause and his words hung in the air. Joffrey narrowed his eyes at him and Sandor steeled himself against the King’s reaction. Had he gone too far, been too bold?

Joffrey nodded his head slowly. “Yes, good thinking. Take the girl to Pycelle’s then.” He waved his hand dismissively and just like that the little bird was once again back under Sandor’s watch. Relief flooded through him but he kept an impassive face and only nodded. He nudged the girl forward and she followed wordlessly, her hair falling forward to cover most of her face. Her eyes stared unseeing at the ground and Sandor doubted if she even knew or cared where he was taking her.

They walked to the end of the hallway before she finally spoke.

“Please, just—just give me a minute,” she gasped, easing herself down onto one of the stone benches that lined the hallways. She bent forward to rest her head in her hands and Sandor got a full view of the cuts. Thankfully the bleeding had stopped, but the sight was still gruesome, too violent for a girl like her. He clenched his fists again, itching to go back into the throne room and slice his sword clean through Meryn. Why had she stopped him? What could she have to lose by him doing that?

_If you die, who’s left to protect her? She’s looking out for herself._

“I don’t think I can walk up all those stairs to Maester Pycelle,” the little bird said, voice muffled.

“I’m not taking you there,” he grunted.

“Then where are you taking me, my lord?” she asked wearily.

“To your room. I’m going to the maester’s myself.”

Without waiting for her to speak, he held out his arm and she took it gratefully. He led her back to her room in silence and told her to wait there.

*

It took Pycelle—that blithering _idiot_ —far too long to give Sandor the medicine he had asked for. When he returned to the little bird’s room, he had to knock three times and figured she had fallen asleep. When she finally opened the door, his suspicions were correct; her hair was tousled, her voice heavy with sleep, and her gown laced haphazardly.

“Pycelle said to rub these in three times daily,” Sandor said, stepping inside and holding out the box of creams the maester had sent. She took the box and stared at it wordlessly. With her hair backlit by the candle in her room, she looked like a goddess with a halo of red; it took all of Sandor’s self-control not to pull her in and kiss her right then.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, setting the box on the chair by her mirror and moving to close the door. Sandor thought this was odd but said nothing. He glanced inside the room and noticed that the cot Shae usually slept on was empty.

“Where’s your handmaiden?” he asked. A bitter look crossed her face, but her words were courteous.

“The King requested she sleep in the servants’ quarters for the time being,” the little bird said carefully. It bothered Sandor that she couldn’t speak freely in front of him, but he couldn’t blame her. If he had been in her shoes, he wouldn’t be able to trust anyone either. Instead, he clenched his jaw so hard he was sure his teeth crumbled into dust. It was just like that little brat to take away the only friend she had here.

The little bird shifted uncomfortably in front of him and Sandor quickly realized she probably wanted him to leave but was too damn polite to say anything.

“I best be going then,” he said gruffly, turning to leave.

“Wait my lord,” she started, stepping towards him. Sandor watched a blush creep up to her cheeks and wondered what she could possibly be about to say. “I—I do not wish to trouble you, but with Shae forbidden to sleep with me, I don’t feel—”

She trailed off and the blush deepened. _Where the seven hells is this going?_ he wondered.

“My lord, I…could you please...stay here tonight?”

Sandor stared at the little bird for a minute, not believing what he was hearing. She wanted him here? In her room? For the entire night?

Her blush crept down her neck as the silence dragged on. She must have misinterpreted his lack of response because her eyes widened and she hastily started backtracking.

“I’m sorry my lord, it was improper of me to ask. Of course you can’t, I under—”

“Fine, I’ll stay.”

“—stand—what? You’ll stay?” She couldn’t keep the hopeful edge out of her voice and it tugged at Sandor’s heart in a strange way. He couldn’t say that he’d ever felt this way about a woman before—definitely none of the women at the brothel who pointedly avoided any positions that were face-to-face—and he found that it felt…strange that someone wanted his company. He’d do anything she asked and yet she had no idea of the immense power she had over him. Such a small thing, barely half his size, and yet she could bring him to heel. All with a smile on her face and courtesies on her lips.

“Aye, I’ll stay,” he grumbled. It was too late to backtrack now. Besides, he’d feel better knowing that someone was with her. Her handmaiden was no bodyguard, but at least she was with the little bird. How long had the girl been sleeping alone? Gods knew she never bolted her door either; it was a miracle no one had tried to attack her in the middle of the night.

_Don’t get your hopes up._

“I’ll sleep by the door,” he continued. He’d sleep as far away as possible from her so that she didn’t feel uncomfortable. She nodded and walked back to the bed, getting underneath the covers fully-clothed.

“What about the salves?” he asked abruptly, eyeing the box of creams still on the chair. The little bird sat up in the bed.

“I can’t do it by myself,” she explained. “I need Shae to help me, but seeing as the King has moved her I’m not sure when I’ll see her.

Sandor didn’t miss the flicker of sadness on her face when she spoke. He wondered how lonely she was and he wished that he could help her feel less alone, somehow.

“Maybe I’ll take the box back to Maester Pycelle in the morning then,” she said after a while. “I don’t have another handmaiden to help me. Perhaps someone else could benefit from them. I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you, my lord.”

Sandor frowned. He had seen the cuts; sure, the bleeding had stopped for now, but any swift movement and they could break open again. He noticed the careful way she walked and he was sure each step pulled at them and pained her.

“I’ll do it,” he said before thinking. His eyes widened when he realized what he had just said and he panicked. He shouldn’t have ever opened his mouth, what kind of an idiot says that? What made him think she was ok with undressing in front of him, regardless of the reason?

Would she kick him out then? Deem him too untrustworthy?

“No my lord, I’m sure tomorrow I can handle the stairs myself. I don’t want to trouble you further.”

Sandor didn’t say anything, confused at her response. Then he realized she had misunderstood.

_Maybe I should just go along with it, save myself the embarrassment of looking like a fool._

“No I mean…I can help you with the salves.”

_Why are you still talking? Just shut the fuck up already, you stupid dog._

She didn’t say anything, didn’t even look surprised or angry or suspicious. She just sat in her bed, staring at her hands like she was thinking very deeply about something. Her brows creased together and finally she lifted her eyes to his.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our favorite redhead is sloooooowly starting to trust him, yay!


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa stared at her hands, the Hound’s offer ringing in her ears. It was the most forward he had ever been with her and she knew she should be wary.

Still…when she’d heard him come into the throne room, he had looked so _angry_. Like he’d been ready to kill Meryn with his bare hands. Sansa could see no ulterior motive for his behavior. It really seemed to her that he genuinely cared about her.

So when he had asked about Shae, Sansa didn’t believe that he was trying to accomplish any hidden agenda. She felt comfortable enough with him to ask if he could stay the night. She knew it was unladylike and improper, but it was hard to describe the level of security she felt today when he saved her. Everybody in that room would have loved to see her completely humiliated. Then _he_ came up behind her, unconcerned with Joffrey or Meryn or anyone else, and helped her up. The level of confidence and bravery emanating off him was enough to convince Sansa that in that moment, he was on her side.

And now, now he was offering to help her with her back and Sansa didn’t want to say no. If Joffrey saw them together right now, they would both be killed. But they were both good at keeping secrets. Sansa didn’t want to admit it to herself, but when she looked at him she felt more than just safe, she felt…well she didn’t know the exact words for it, but it wasn’t really fear or hatred or anger. Not anymore, at least. It was something akin to admiration and a begrudging respect.

“Okay,” she said, meeting his eyes. He looked surprised but nodded once. Sansa stood to her feet and, although she was willing to accept his help with the salves, all of her teachings went against what she was about to do. The Hound— _no, Sandor—_ must have sensed her hesitation because he stopped and held out the box to her.

“Little bird, maybe I should—”

“No my lord, I want to do this.”

She meant it, too. She was tired of being bought and sold like a trophy. She resented that, as a woman, she had no say in her future. Sansa wanted to make a choice for herself to prove that Joffrey did not own her, that he had not broken her.

She turned to face the wall by her bed. Slowly and with shaking hands, she undid the laces and let her dress fall open. She had taken off the ripped and bloody shift before Sandor had come back, so she only wore her smallclothes underneath the gown. She blushed, grateful that the back of her smallclothes was low enough to where she wouldn’t have to remove that, too. She wasn’t sure that her willingness to accept his help would extend that far.

Sansa shrugged so that the dress hung off her shoulders and held the front of it to her chest. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and turned to Sandor.

He was watching with cautious eyes, afraid maybe that she would change her mind at the last moment. But of this, Sansa was sure. She nodded her head and he walked over to her side, armor clinking with his steps.

“This might sting, little bird,” he murmured, taking a wet cloth and dabbing at the dried blood. Sansa closed her eyes and tried to ignore the pangs that stabbed through her. When her skin was clean, she heard Sandor open the box and take out a container.

“Pycelle said it should help with the pain,” Sandor said. She flinched when the cloth with the salve on it touched her sore skin.

“Sorry,” he said softly. Sansa could almost sense the regret that lined his voice, and after that he tried to be as gentle as possible. The room was completely silent except for his quiet, even breathing. Sansa lost herself in the rhythm of it, in and out, in and out, and she found it a welcome distraction from the pain.

“All done, little bird,” he announced after a while.

“Thank you,” she said, watching him screw the cap back on the container of salve. She felt strangely embarrassed, although she couldn’t say exactly why. The moment had seemed too intimate and now she was starting to wonder if it had been a good idea at all. 

Then she looked at Sandor, fumbling to squeeze the container back into the box the same neat way that Pycelle had done it, and her heart warmed just a degree.

When she had first met him, his scars had scared her, it was true, but only because he had caught her by surprise. He cut an imposing figure, already larger than most men and much stronger. She had been just a child in a new city, startled by all the differences between King’s Landing and Winterfell. When she had felt him behind her that day in the town—a solid wall of muscle and armor—she’d turned pale with fright, not knowing what he would do to her when he saw her walking alone.

But he had done nothing, just said a bit of his sarcastic humor before Joffrey came and sang a few pretty words and had Sansa’s attention again like a snake charmer.

She looked at him now, at the scars that she hardly noticed anymore, and she tried to keep her smile to herself. She never would have dreamed that one day, this fearsome, grumbling, cursing man would be alone with her in her chambers, and she would not be afraid.

Sansa eased the dress up over her shoulders, wincing as the fabric pressed against the tender skin, and tied it loosely in front of her. Sandor pointedly avoided looking at her, a fact for which she was grateful. As much as she respected him, she still remembered her teachings of modesty and courtesy.

She heard the sound of his armor again and turned to see him getting settled on the floor by the door.

“My lord, what are you doing?”

“Sleeping here, little bird, like you asked.

Sansa’s eyes flit towards the cot by her bed.

“I’ll get fresh sheets for the cot, you mustn’t sleep on the floor like that,” Sansa said, hurrying towards the drawer by her bed. A smirk, somewhere a cross between exasperation and amusement crossed Sandor’s face before he spoke.

“Don’t worry about me, little bird, I’ve slept on worse than a floor before.”

Without further ado, he turned onto his side and knew Sansa knew that arguing with him was pointless. She crept into her own bed and closed her eyes, this time not fighting it as the tiniest of smiles tugged at her lips.

*

In the morning, Sandor was gone. Although Sansa knew he had to leave early to avoid suspicion, the sight of the empty room pulled strangely at her heart. She got up to look in the mirror and saw the pillow lines across her cheek from sleeping on her stomach all night long. While she slept better than she had in a long time with Sandor at her door, she still had not slept well. She couldn’t remember the last time she slept through a full night without waking up from the nightmares. Whenever she woke up screaming and tangled in her sheets, Shae would smooth them out for her with her cool hands and stay by her side until she fell back asleep. Without her, it had been even harder, and Sansa felt perpetually exhausted.

She carefully peeled away the dress from her back and breathed in relief when she didn’t see any blood on the fabric. She tentatively reached a hand over a shoulder and felt scabs forming over the cuts. She sighed, knowing that the coming few days would be torture. She wouldn’t be able to move her arms or shoulders much at all.

She wondered what Shae was doing, if she was safe or happy.

 _No one is happy here,_ she thought bitterly. Sansa sat on the edge of the bed in her smallclothes, thinking about which dress she could wear that would cause her the least amount of pain, when someone burst into her room.

She stood stock-still, too shocked to even pull up a sheet to cover herself.

Meryn stood in the doorway, his usual scowl on his face.

“Girl, have you seen the Hound?” he barked at her, running his eyes down her half-dressed body and grinning lecherously. He took one step into her room and that spurred her into action. She shot to her feet and wrapped a sheet around her.

“No my lord, I haven’t seen him,” she said evenly, trying to tune out the painful beating of her heart against her ribcage.

_Could they know? Could Sandor have said something to Joffrey?_

Betrayal flooded her veins and she lowered her head regretfully.

W _rong again, Sansa. Always wrong._

Arya had always told her that she was not the best judge of character. Sansa was starting to see that now, and the truth of it made her irritable.

“My lord he is not in here, so please leave. I am not appropriately dressed.”

The smile melted off Meryn’s face and was quickly replaced with anger.

“What did you say to me, girl? Was that an _order_?” he sneered, taking another step towards her.

Realizing her mistake, Sansa tried to backtrack. She took a step back and her feet hit the wall behind her.

“I’d say you _are_ appropriately dressed after all. Such white, pretty skin…well not so white after your last lesson, is it girl?”

He towered a full head over her and smelled of blood and sweat, and suddenly Sansa was transported back to Flea Bottom, the memory of those men on top of her tearing at her mind.

“My lord, this is not proper,” she said firmly, praying that her voice didn’t shake. She forced herself to meet him eyes and saw no kindness, no mercy, no compassion. They were so unlike Sandor’s, who—

_Stop thinking about him. He’s probably said something and that’s why Meryn is here._

Meryn ran his hand down Sansa’s cheek and she turned away her head in disgust. He grabbed her chin in his hands and yanked her face back to him.

“Is that all you can say? The same words over and over? No wonder the King doesn’t think much of you. You really are a stupid bitch,” he spat. “But Joffrey gave no orders to teach you today, so I’d best be on my way.”

“What in the seven hells are you doing, Trant?” boomed a familiar voice. Sansa hated that her heart leaped at the sound but couldn’t help it, couldn’t help that she felt safe when she heard him.

Trant let her go and she massaged her cheek where his fingers had been.

“I could ask the same of you, dog.”

“I was in the hall and saw the girl’s door open, not that I owe you any damned explanation,” he said.

“I was looking for _you,_ ” Trant said irritably. “His Grace is looking for you.”

“And why the fuck would you look for me _here_?”

Sansa’s heart leaped again. _Does that mean he didn’t say anything?_

Trant pulled his lips back in what should have been a smile but seemed more like a snarl. “Because I know how you Cleganes like your pretty little maidens.”

Sandor narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Trant barked a laugh. “You know exactly what it means, Hound.”

He laughed again and pushed past Sandor on the way out of Sansa’s room.

Sansa slumped against the wall in relief, ignoring the protest of her cuts.

“Did he hurt you, little bird?” he asked, not moving from his spot.

“N—no, he didn’t.” She could barely hear him over the rising crescendo of panic in her ears. This kept happening again and again. Either in the throne room, or the streets, or in her own chambers! Sansa clutched the sheet tighter to her and squeezed her eyes shut. This is not what a Lady of Winterfell should have to endure! She wanted her family, she wanted her _life_ back. How silly she had been as a child, wanting to leave Winterfell so eagerly. She would give everything she had to be back home now. Suddenly exhausted, she put a hand to her forehead.

Sandor, seemingly unaware of her internal crisis, huffed impatiently.

“Why don’t you ever bolt your door? You know it isn’t safe to—”

“Joffrey took it,” she said dully, her eyes still closed.

“He—what?” he asked, finally snapping out his frustration to look at her.

She opened her eyes and stared at the floor. “He took it. I don’t have a bolt.”

Sandor grabbed the door and swung it closed, as if he had to see it for himself to believe it. Sansa didn’t know why he was so shocked; removing the bolt was the least wicked thing Joffrey had done, in comparison. Sansa slumped to the ground, feeling the bite of the cold floor through the thin sheet.

Sandor turned and started to say something but his words died in his throat when he saw her like that.

“What’s wrong, little bird?” he asked, walking towards her.

She said nothing, pulling at the loose threads on the sheet instead. If she opened her mouth, then everything she had been biting back since day one of her imprisonment here would come rushing out.

“Little bird?” His shadow fell over her and she finally looked up at him. She saw concern—real concern—in his eyes. She quickly looked away, lowering her gaze back to the fabric she was worrying between her fingers. Sandor stood awkwardly in front of her for another minute before kneeling down on his knees in front of her.

“What did he do?” Sandor growled, reaching for his sword.

At that, the dam inside of Sansa broke.

“It’s not what _he_ did!” she almost shouted. A look of surprise flashed through his face at her outburst. “It’s what _everyone_ does! They look at me like a prize, they treat me like a prisoner. I _am_ a prisoner, I don’t belong in this city! I see it every night, them holding me down or beating me or hurting me.” The tears stung her eyes and she angrily covered her face with her hands as the traitorous sobs wracked through her body. Her throat constricted and she couldn’t say another word.

For a moment, all was still. Then she heard Sandor shift until he was leaning against the wall next to her. She stiffened for a moment, considering scooting away from him, but then she felt his warm arms around her and she melted into his side.

She buried her face into his shoulder and he held her wordlessly while she cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! 
> 
> Shorter chapter than usual but I wanted to get this up because I have a major exam Friday so I won't be able to post anything new until Saturday at the earliest! Sorry ahhhh exam season is coming lol


	5. Chapter 5

Sandor didn’t know how long he sat there with her. All he knew was that the little bird needed someone and so he’d try to be that someone.

She leaned against his side, her face hidden behind her hair and his armor. He doubted it was very comfortable, but she clung to him like he was her lifeline so he didn’t dare say a word. The sobs wracked through her body and he just held her, rocking her slowly back and forth, careful not to touch the cuts on her back. He tried to ignore the way they fit together like puzzle pieces, tried to ignore the berry smell to her hair. He stared at the ceiling, trying not to remember how he had never had a woman close to him like this.

She sniffed and brought her head up to look at him. Her face was puffy and red and soaked with tears and Sandor still thought she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

_Focus, dog. Now is the worst possible time to be thinking about this_

“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, wiping her face with her hands. “I—I don’t know what came over me, my lo—”

“Enough with the courtesies already,” Sandor said, exasperated. “I think we’re well past that.”

The little bird nodded and slowly detached herself from him. She wiped her face again and leaned back against the wall. Sandor could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest while her heart raced.

“Little bird,” he began. “Let me take you away from here.”

“And go where? There are Lannister spies everywhere,” she murmured, her head back against the wall.

Sandor could tell that she wasn’t really entertaining the idea, probably because she had already thought of it and had long since buried her hope in order to survive.

“I could take you back to Winterfell.”

“You what?” she asked, turning to look at him, her eyebrow raised incredulously. “We wouldn’t make it five paces past the front gate.”

“The Lannisters may have their spies, aye. But there are people here still loyal to the Stark name.”

She shook her head wearily. “You don’t owe me anything. I won’t ask this of you.”

“You’re not asking, little bird. I’m offering.”

“But why?” she asked, her intense gaze searching his, as if for a deeper explanation. “You are the King’s guard. Your place is here, in King’s Lan—”

“Fuck the King,” Sandor spat. “Fuck King’s Landing. My place is anywhere I can reap a living.”

The little bird sat quietly and Sandor wondered if he had gone too far with his words. He knew she hated that brat, no matter how she faked it for the rest of the bloody castle, but he panicked that his roughness would scare her away. He’d never had to think about anyone else’s damn _feelings_ before; he had to tread lightly around this mystery of a girl.

“I can’t,” she said firmly.

“Why not? Whatever’s out there is better than the shit they put you through in here.”

Sandor thought she’d have been jumping at the opportunity to leave, especially after this whole episode. He didn’t understand her hesitancy and it gnawed at him, like she knew something he didn’t.

“It’s not about that. I’m not scared of anything out there,” she said, and Sandor believed her. She had a quiet sort of bravery about her that others passed off as dullness, but not he.

“Then what’s the problem?” he pressed.

She just stared at her hands, saying nothing.

“Fine,” he muttered, getting to his feet. His legs were numb after sitting still for so long and he worked the blood back into them, the pins and needles creeping in.

“Where are you going?” she asked, surprised by his sudden movement.

Where was he going? He had no idea, but the little bird didn’t want to talk and that rubbed him the wrong way. He couldn’t make sense of his emotions right now so he had to go somewhere else, somewhere away from her, so he could unscramble his mind and figure out just why he was prepared to risk everything for someone who didn’t trust him.

“Training pits,” he muttered before closing the door behind him.

*

Sandor skulked off to the pits, itching to spar until he couldn’t stand anymore. He was still surprised that she had rejected his offer, although in the back of his mind, that little voice of reason protested his reaction.

_She hardly knows you. What did you expect?_

He expected that she hated Joffrey so much she’d want to get away from him at all costs.

_Maybe she’d rather fight the devil she knows than the one she doesn’t._

Sandor scowled and looked around the pits to see who’d give him a good match. No one there came even close except for Trant, and even he was a shit fighter. Why was he even Kingsguard, anyway? A blind girl with a damn stick could beat three Trants.

“Trant!” he barked across the pit. “Spar with me.”

Trant, who’d been leaning against the case of wooden swords, narrowed his eyes.

“What do you want, dog?”

“To beat your cunt face with my sword until I feel better,” Sandor fired back. Trant shot him a suspicious glare but drew his sword anyway, moving like an old maid.

_Move fucking faster,_ he thought viciously.

Sandor lunged at him before Trant could get into a proper position and immediately knocked the smaller man onto his back.

“I wasn’t ready, dog,” the knight growled, getting to his feet.

Sandor swiped his sword under Trant’s legs, sending him crashing down again. Trant sprang forward and jabbed at Sandor’s legs but Sandor easily blocked the blow, bringing his sword crashing down onto Trant’s back.

“The damn whores in Flea Bottom can fight better than you,” Sandor jeered.

Trant aimed for his face and found purchase this time. Sandor felt a sting on his cheek and reached up to feel blood. Trant grinned and Sandor suddenly remembered that he’d smiled the same way when he’d been beating the little bird.

Dropping his sword, he lunged at Meryn and wrapped his hands around the knight’s neck, sending them both crashing to the ground. Sandor balled up his fist and landed blow after blow onto Trant’s face.

“Get—off—me—you—crazy—dog!” Trant sputtered, spitting out blood while he shoved his hands against Sandor’s eyes.

Sandor was vaguely aware of other hands gripping his shoulders but he couldn’t stop, he wouldn’t stop, not until he had made this little shit feel a fraction of the pain he put the little bird through.

Trant finally stopped struggling and lay limply under him. Sandor looked down at the bloody mess and although his desire for revenge hadn’t been sated yet, he knew if he kept going he’d kill the damn man— _not that that would be any great tragedy_ —but Joffrey would be pissed.

Sandor got to his feet and shook out his hand, glaring in disgust at the knight stirring feebly.

He bent down to grab his sword and set back in the direction of the castle.

*

Sandor was once again pacing the halls, looking for something that would distract him from thoughts of the little bird. He was annoyed with her at the moment and the more he thought of her, the more frustrated he grew.

He didn’t understand why she wasn’t being open with him. Hadn’t he already proved his damn loyalty? He’d given her a way out of this hellhole, risked everything to offer her a choice, and she still didn’t trust him enough to tell him why she said no.

_She doesn’t own you anything_ , that voice of reason chimed in his head, repeating her words from before back at him. He knew that, but it still…well, it still hurt. He thought she’d be different, that she wouldn’t just use him, and…

_And what? Did you think you’d get married and live in a nice castle like in her bloody songs, you stupid fool?_

No, of course he didn’t go that far, but he thought that maybe she had _wanted_ his company instead of using him as a means to an end. Guess he really was a shit judge of character, after all. He knew she’d do anything to survive, include use people to her advantage, but for some reason he hadn’t expected her to use _him._

“Stupid dog,” he muttered to himself, rounding the corner of the hall and heading towards his room.

Before Sandor could open the door, he saw someone approaching him out of the corner of his eye. His scowl deepened.

“What do you want now, Imp? Is the King’s _betrothed_ missing again?”

“No, this time he wants to see you,” Tyrion said, forcing patience.

Sandor didn’t actually have a problem with the youngest Lannister—he seemed one of the better ones—but right now his temper was short and he wasn’t in the mood for the games.

“What for?” Sandor grunted.

“I don’t know for certain, but I suspect it has something to do with that,” Tyrion said, eyeing the blood on Sandor’s armor and face.

He groaned internally and set off for the direction of the throne room, where he suspected Joffrey would be.

*

“You wanted to see me?” Sandor asked the King, bowing his head slightly when he entered the room.

Joffrey sat on the throne, as usual, with the same look on his face, that cross between boredom and disgust. Sandor itched to slap the little shit and teach _him_ a lesson or two, too. His hands balled up into fists and he had to exhale hard through his nose to keep a straight face.

“I heard what you did to Meryn in the pits today, Hound.”

Sandor waited for him to continue but he didn’t.

“We were practicing, Your Grace,” Sandor said, unsure of what exactly the kid wanted.

_Get to the damn point._

“Judging by Meryn’s face, you were _practicing_ very hard.”

“Aye, Your Grace. I train hard when I go to the pits. Keeps me aware.”

_Where in seven bloody hells is this going? Is this damn child going to keep me here all day?_

Joffrey nodded slowly, mulling his words over.

“Well Hound, it looks like it’s your lucky day today,” he finally said, smiling in that terrible way that told Sandor something very bad was going to happen. “Meryn is recovering from his injuries and mother tells me a King should never strike his lady.”

Joffrey’s smile grew wider and Sandor’s blood chilled.

_No…surely he doesn’t mean what I think he means._

“Lead the way, dog. Let’s pay the future Queen a visit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another baby chapter because I reeeeallyyy didn't want to go a week without posting but I also have a million pages of reading.
> 
> Promise the next chapter will be more exciting! I know this one was mostly internal dialogue and character-developing. 
> 
> :)


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa heard a knock at the door.

Before she could react, whoever was at the door barged right in. She saw Joffrey stride into the room.

Oh gods no, not today, please not right now.

“Come, Hound!” he barked.

Her heart fluttered at that, but the worry gnawed at her. If Sandor and Joffrey were both here, Sansa knew she was in for a long night.

Sandor ducked his head under the doorway and stepped slowly into the room, closing the door. His eyes flickered to hers and they exchanged a look, hers worried, his apologetic.

“Hello, my lady,” Joffrey said, circling around Sansa like a lion ready to pounce.

“Your Grace,” she said, bowing her head. “To what do I owe this surprise?”

“I thought the time was appropriate for another lesson,” he said, the corners of his mouth pulling up in what was more a sneer than a smile. “We don’t want you following in the footsteps of your traitor brother. What do you think of that?”

Sansa’s heart beat faster at those dreaded words. She tried to steel herself against what she knew was coming.

 _Whatever he does, you can survive. You_ will _survive._

She wouldn’t give him what he wants, and what he wanted was for her to scream, to cry, to beg. If she withheld that from him, he could cut her and beat her all he wanted, but he still would not win. She lifted her eyes to his and held his gaze.

“My brothers are traitors, you’re right, Your Grace. I am truly grateful for your lessons.”

Although it hurt to say those words, Sansa knew they were what Joffrey wanted to hear. Whether or not he believed them, she couldn’t say, but she knew she had to be convincing. Joffrey’s eyes bored into her own but she didn’t look away.

“Hound, unburden my lady,” Joffrey said, breaking the eye contact. Sandor kept a bored expression but Sansa could tell by the way his jaw clenched that he didn’t want to.

She felt him step behind her and heard him unsheathe the sword at his hip.

“I’m sorry little bird,” he murmured, quiet enough that only she could hear.

Sansa shivered when the tip of the cold blade touched her back, but didn’t say a word. She felt Joffrey’s eyes on her, analyzing her every movement, her reactions, so she stared at the tiles on the floor and tried to think about something that didn’t hurt.

Sandor’s blade sawed through the laces of her dress one by one and she thought of the garden at nighttime, the way the flowers swayed in the breeze and the leaves whispered.

 _Don’t cry, don’t cry_ , she chanted to herself, over and over.

Sandor hesitated when all the laces had been cut, as if unsure about how to proceed.

“What are you waiting for, dog?” Joffrey snapped. Sandor gathered the fabric of her dress in his hands and slowly pushed it down over her shoulders, his touch leaving trails of fire on her skin. She kept her arms at her side and didn’t breathe a word when Sandor’s hands went to her hips to yank the rest of the dress down.

“Keep going,” Joffrey said, his eyes ravenously raking over her body.

_He’s loving this. He loves to torture people._

She clenched her hands into fists.

_I won’t let him hear me cry._

She felt Sandor touch her fist where Joffrey couldn’t see. A warning. She slowly relaxed her hands.

Sandor pushed the shift down and it pooled on top of the dress at her feet. Goosebumps pricked her skin and she shivered again, exhaling hard once through her nose and keeping her lips pressed together.

She felt Sandor standing behind her, his warmth at her back. She could feel his unwillingness to be there and it was a small comfort to her, knowing that he, at least, was not enjoying this either.

“Keep going,” Joffrey said again, completely engrossed in the scene unfolding before him.

“I can wait outside, Your Grace,” Sandor offered gruffly. “Guard the door until you’re done. I noticed coming in there’s no bolt on it.”

“Yes yes, I had the bolt removed. A traitor’s daughter deserves no privacy,” he said, impatiently waving his hand. “You stay here as witness to her humiliation, dog.”

Sansa’s breaths were so shallow she was afraid she might collapse. Her legs shook and her heart pounded like a drum but she was determined to keep up appearances. She refused to let Joffrey win. Maybe next time she would be on her knees, begging for mercy, but tonight that would not be the case. Tonight, she’d have her victory, however small.

When Sandor’s sword sliced through the back of her smallclothes and she felt them fall, she wrapped her arms around her chest and kept her eyes trained on the floor. Sansa knew Joffrey was waiting for her to start crying, and gods knew she wanted to. Her eyes swam with unshed tears but she furiously blinked them away. The words of her septa rang in her ears, lessons about modesty and chastity, and a rush of sorrow flowed through her, sorrow for her loss, sorrow for another time long passed.

She lifted her eyes to Joffrey’s and the sorrow melted away, replaced by anger.

 _Let him see_ , she thought defiantly. _Let him see how I won’t cry_.

She heard the clink of Sandor’s armor and imagined him to be shifting uncomfortably in place, the way he always did when he wanted out of a situation. An irrational thought shot through her mind before she could bury it, one where Sandor swept her up into his arms and took her far away from this mess. Gods knew she remembered how warm and comforting he had felt, curled around her, holding her while she cried.

_He offered to help, you know, but you said no._

The tension in the room was palpable—Joffrey’s displeasure was evident in the way he scowled at her. Sansa could see his mind working, no doubt trying to think of some scheme to humiliate her further.

“You know, I spared your pretty face from Meryn’s sword,” Joffrey began after a long stretch of silence. “But I think you’d learn better if you could see the consequences of your mistakes clearly.”

“As Your Grace wishes,” Sansa said dully, her voice rough with unshed tears. She trembled from the cold and from the fear but no matter what happened, she wouldn’t give Joffrey what he wanted.

“Dog, I want you to carve the word ‘traitor’ into her face,” Joffrey ordered. Sansa heard a sharp intake of breath behind her and she tried to hide the shock that crossed her own face.

_Would Sandor really do that to me?_

She thought of the way Sandor had always obeyed Joffrey in the past. Sure, he had deviated a little here and there to help her out, but he had never directly refused orders. She thought of his big, threatening frame behind her and felt a stab of fear.

Someone rapped on the door, breaking the mounting strain between the three of them. Sansa reached down to grab her ruined shift but Joffrey stared daggers at her.

“Don’t you dare,” he said through clenched teeth.

The knock came again, more urgent this time.

“Your Grace, I was told I could find you here,” came a muffled voice through the door. Sansa didn’t recognize the voice and didn’t care. She prayed that Joffrey wouldn’t invite the man inside. She couldn’t bear it if someone else saw her this way.

 _Please leave, please leave_ , Sansa prayed. Maybe if she had a moment alone with Sandor she could devise a plan.

The moment seemed to stretch on for eternity before Joffrey finally sighed, clearly annoyed.

“Dog, when I return I better see blood,” Joffrey snapped, stepping out into the hall to speak with the man.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Sansa wrapped the shift around herself and turned around.

“Little bird, I’m not going to cut you," Sandor said firmly. His mouth was pressed into a tight line and Sansa knew he wasn’t going to change his mind. Relief flooded through her, but it was short-lived. If Joffrey came back and the deed wasn’t done, they would both be in deep trouble.

Sansa knew she had to take matters into her own hands.

“Give me your dagger,” she said decisively. She watched as confusion and then understanding dawned on Sandor’s face.

“No, I’m not letting you do that,” he said.

“There’s no other choice!” Sansa hissed, her hand darting out to grab the dagger from his belt. Quick as lightning, Sandor seized her wrist before she could wrap her fingers around the hilt.

“We’re running out of time,” she said, the panic thundering in her veins. Sandor held her gaze and Sansa knew he was desperately conflicted, but the seconds were ticking and Joffrey could walk back in any moment now. Finally he let go of her and she yanked the blade from its sheath, running to the mirror on the wall.

With shaking hands, she pressed the tip against her left cheek and scratched the letters in as lightly as she dared. She knew Joffrey would want to see blood, so she pressed the tip in just enough to see red. She gasped at the pain but worked quickly, hastily brushing the tears aside when she couldn’t blink them away.

She finished and stepped back to examine the results. Sandor’s eyes met hers in the mirror and Sansa saw the pain in them, and she felt shame for thinking he would have hurt her.

She stepped back to him and wordlessly held out the blade. He took it from her but his eyes didn’t leave her face. She knew what he was looking for—terror, panic, hatred—and although she felt all of those and more, she pressed them down deep inside and kept her face smooth. The scarlet letters on her face burned but she didn’t complain. This was what had to be done to ensure both of their safeties.

Sansa searched Sandor’s face too, afraid that he might be disgusted with her for doing such a despicable thing without protesting at all. But all she saw was concern etched in the way he pursed his lips, the way his jaw tightened.

He moved to wipe the dagger off but she stopped him with a hand on his forearm.

“No, don’t. Let him see,” she said softly.

Sansa heard the doorknob jingle and let the shift fall again. Joffrey stepped inside, his scowl deeper than usual.

“Come, Hound. My mother _requests_ our presence in the throne room.”

His eyes fell to Sandor’s dagger and a small smile crept to his lips before flitting to Sansa’s face. He nodded tightly in approval and quickly stepped out of the room.

What was going on? Joffrey had never left so abruptly, especially not when he was torturing her like this. Whatever news that man had delivered must’ve been very important.

_Maybe something about my family!_

“Get dressed, little bird. It’s over for now,” Sandor murmured before taking his leave as well. Sansa noticed that he didn’t look directly at her and another swell of appreciation flowed through her. The other honorless knights in the Kingsguard wouldn’t have hesitated to gape at her, to make her feel small and worthless.

_But Sandor is not a knight. He's different._

She retrieved her shift from the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. Finally her heart beat was starting to return to normal and her anxiety was creeping away.

She had survived the night. A smile of victory pulled at her lips and she didn’t fight it. Of course she resented the fact that she had to be so vulnerable like that in front of Sandor—by all means a stranger to her who was not her husband—but she also felt strong. Joffrey may have stripped her naked in front of others, may have taken her father and her home from her, but she had fought back, and tonight she had won.

But she didn’t want to keep doing this every night and she knew things would only get worse once her and Joffrey were married. Her thoughts turned again to Sandor’s offer of escape. She hadn’t wanted to admit the truth to him, didn’t want him to look at her with contempt for refusing to let go of some of her childish dreams, but she couldn’t help but hold on to the hope that her family would come rescue her from King’s Landing. What if Sansa left to find them first, and then they came for her? Their journey would be in vain and who knows what would happen to them in King’s Landing? She didn’t want to put them in more danger.

But her family was smart. They wouldn’t march into King’s Landing alone, with no means of protection. No, they would march with an army, determined to get her back.

 _And then that would mean war_ , Sansa thought sadly. And war threatened the safety of everyone, not just her enemies.

She wrung her hand worriedly. Where could her family be right now? Arya hadn’t been seen since her father’s death and that was several moons ago. The last news she heard of the others, Jon was with the Night’s Watch and Robb was King of the North, their mother with him. Rickon and Bran were dead, burned by that traitor Theon. Sansa gently touched the word carved into her skin and thought bitterly that he should be the one with it, not her.

Her only hope then was Robb and her mother. They had an army behind them, they were strong and respected. But even with all the power they had, she doubted they would blindly march into King’s Landing, and the more she thought about it, the less she wanted them to come either. This situation, this prison that she was in was her responsibility. She would not be the cause of death of any more of her loved ones.

Which meant she had to send a raven, somehow. She had to find the one person she could completely trust to help her.

She would have to find Shae.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies! 
> 
> From here on I'm aiming for weekly updates :) Most likely on saturdays or sundays. I try not to post unless I have the next chapter in the works, but sometimes that takes too long so I just end up posting the most current chapter I have, which is what I did now, to reduce the time between each chapter going up. 
> 
> Hope everyone is having a lovely weekend!


	7. AUTHOR'S NOTE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a real chapter, just an author's note!!

Hey guys, sorry for the false-advertising, trying to make it clear that this is a note and not a chapter update. I know it's been a suuper long time since the last update and I have definitely definitely not abandoned this fic, but lately school has been really difficult. I'm taking the equivalent of 8 classes so I'm really struggling to stay afloat and it's hard to find hours during the week to work on this. I wanted to post this so that you guys know I haven't forgotten about it, I just have zero free time right now. I really appreciate everyone being so nice and patient! I promise I'll find the time to update soon!!

 

<3


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, Sansa was pulling the curtains back from her window when someone knocked on the door. She sighed with dread, as this was becoming a regular occurrence. It could only be one of three people—Sandor, Meryn, or Joffrey—and none of them meant good news for her.

“Little bird, open up.”

Sansa hurried to the door and opened it, seeing Sandor’s familiar figure taking up most of the doorway.

“What is it?” she asked nervously, wishing she didn’t have to hear the response.

“The Queen wants to speak with you. She’s asked that you meet her in the throne room.”

_What have I done that Cersei wants to see me?_

Her thoughts immediately leapt to Sandor and she was filled with a cold fear that, somehow, Cersei knew what had transpired between the two of them. Granted, it wasn’t much, but it was still highly inappropriate for a lady to behave the way she had. She opened her mouth to ask a flood of questions but Sandor held up his hand to stop her.

“Before you ask, no I don’t know why she wants to see you, but I suspect it has to do with _that._ ”

He reached up slowly and ran the back of his hand gently down her cheek, light as a feather. Sansa closed her eyes, remembering the last time he had touched her like this. It felt like a lifetime ago.

It was strange, but whenever he was gentle with her, she swelled with a sort of pride that she could elicit such a response from such a rough man.

He pushed her hair over her shoulder and turned her head to the left, running his thumb over the fading lines on her cheek. His hand lingered on her jaw, tracing lightly up to her ear and back down to her chin. Sansa’s nerves were on fire and pleasure rippled through her. She never wanted him to stop touching her like this, so soft and sweet.

As if suddenly realizing that they were in the open where anyone could see, Sandor jerked his hand back and cleared his throat.

_Why was he here, again?_

Her head swam as she tried to remember the purpose of his visit, but it wasn’t in an unpleasant way. She felt warm inside, giddy like a little girl. Her heart fluttered when she rose her eyes to meet his.

“Let’s go little bird, we can’t keep her waiting.”

*

Cersei turned from the window to look at Sansa when she walked in the room. Sansa had only spoken with Cersei a handful of times, but each time left her with more distrust for the woman than before. She knew Sandor waited for her outside the doors, but that did nothing to assuage her nerves. Cersei was not Joffrey; where Joffrey was impulsive and cruel, Cersei was cold and calculated. The smooth words that dripped from her lips carried malice in them and Sansa was afraid for what she would say.

“I know you’re wondering why I summoned you here,” she spoke softly. Sansa hesitated before nodding her head. “My son told me what he did,” she said, gesturing lightly to Sansa’s face. “I’ve instructed him many times never to hit his lady, but Joffrey was always the most difficult of my children.”

Cersei turned her eyes back to the window and silence stretched between them. Sansa wondered where the conversation was headed. She didn’t expect Cersei to care what Joffrey did to her, so she was surprised that she’d even been called here in the first place. But the silence was starting to get strained, so Sansa wracked her brain trying to find the right words to say.

“I love Joffrey with all my heart, Your Grace.”

Cersei walked to the center of the room until she stood in front of Sansa and she smiled in a way that let Sansa know she didn’t believe her.

“When you are wed and become Queen,” Cersei said, “Joffrey will show you none of the devotion you show him.”

“I know what my duties are. I will please him,” Sansa said, sounding far more assured than she felt.

“You can try, little dove.” Cersei sat down in the chair opposite Sansa and waved her hand as if to change the subject. “I know you’ve been without a handmaiden for some time now. That isn’t appropriate. I’ve instructed your handmaiden to return to your chambers come morning tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa said cautiously, hardly believing her luck. It was only a fortnight ago that Sansa had resolved to find her friend. How was it that the Queen was dropping the very thing Sansa wanted into her lap? It seemed suspiciously kind of Cersei and Sansa did not want to get her hopes up for nothing.

“Don’t go anywhere without her by your side,” Cersei said coolly.

_Was that a threat, or a warning?_

*

On the way back to her chamber, Sandor didn’t ask what the meeting was about, but Sansa could tell he was curious in the way he kept shooting side glances at her.

She looked up at him from the corner of her eyes and her eyes traced over his jaw. She silently admired the angular way it curved under his beard. So strong, so unbreakable. His eyes faced forward and she could see that he was concentrating very hard on something, although she didn’t know what it could be.

He was such an enigma to her. Everyone talked of his reputation as a drunken slob, but in all the times Sansa had seen him, he’d been so focused and honorable. He didn’t make her uncomfortable anymore; she trusted him completely.

She thought back to when she believed the rumors, when she thought Sandor was no better than any of them. How wrong she had been. In this prison, he was her only ally.

Her heart ached and she felt a thousand miles away from everyone, despite feeling the warmth of him next to her. Sansa tentatively wrapped her arm around Sandor’s elbow, a deep heat creeping up to her face, and she prayed he wouldn’t say anything about it. Mercifully, he bent his arm up wordlessly to give her a better hold.

Sansa felt the thick, coiled muscles under her touch and blushed even deeper at her improper thoughts. She ached to run her fingers through his beard, to feel the coarseness of it, of him.

She wondered why these thoughts were suddenly running through her mind. Was it the conversation with Cersei? It just served to confirm what she already knew: that her time was running out. Once she was married to Joffrey, things would only get worse. What limited freedom she had now would be ripped away from her. She would no longer have her own chamber to collect her thoughts. That meant her walks with Sandor would most likely come to an end as well. Her heart ached again. If she thought she was lonely now…well her marriage to the King would show her that things could always be worse. And, gods help her, she didn’t _want_ to give everything to Joffrey.

At some point, long ago, she had wanted this very scenario. She had learned all the things ladies had to learn in order to be a good wife and Queen. She had waited for the day she could shower her handsome King with love and devotion, to raise their kids and create a home for them. Now, the thought of doing any of that with Joffrey nauseated her. How stupid she had been to want to leave Winterfell! All of the beauty of King’s Landing that had originally enchanted her was spoiled, nothing more than gilded lies.

Her heart started to beat faster the angrier she grew. The horrible thoughts suffocated her and she coughed to try to clear the lump in her throat.

“Everything ok, little bird?” Sandor asked, looking down at her.

“Yes,” she breathed, gripping his arm a little tighter. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.

They arrived at the door to her chamber but she was reluctant to let go. Once she stepped into that room, she’d be alone again. The loneliness was a cage different from that of King’s Landing. The isolation pressed in on her and weighed her down.

She looked again at Sandor and her heart warmed at the way he looked at her, with so much concern and caring.

_His lips look so soft._

If she had ever wanted _anything_ , now was the time to take it.

“Could you come inside with me for a moment? I need to show you something,” Sansa said quietly, nervous that he would see right through her weak attempt at…whatever this was. She wouldn’t call it seduction, but she wasn’t telling him the truth either so she supposed that’s what it was.

Sandor narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Please, my lord,” Sansa whispered, slipping back into the courtesies in her anxiousness.

Sandor hesitated for a moment, then stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“What is it, little bird? Make it fast, I have rounds to make.”

Sansa’s nervousness shot higher than she thought possible at his words. Could she really do this? He was no flower-tossing knight like those from the stories. He was a man who could take whatever he wanted. Sansa _knew_ she shouldn’t be playing such dangerous games with a man like this…but she felt _safe_. She ignored her instincts screaming at her to run and instead took a step closer to Sandor. She looked up at him and lost herself in the warm chocolate of his eyes.

Sansa had no graceful way of going about it, never having dealt with someone as tall as he. She held onto Sandor’s breastplate and awkwardly pulled him down, pressing her lips against his. She felt Sandor stiffen in surprise and yank himself away.

“What are you _doing_?” Sandor barked. “Do you have a death wish, girl?”

Sansa opened her mouth to reply but no words came out. This had not gone the way she had imagined, not at all. She tried to speak again, to formulate some kind of quick apology, but Sandor ripped the door open and left before she could say a word.

The door slammed shut and Sansa stood in the confused and eerie silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I'm back!!!! Finally through that hellish semester. Sorry for the short chapter! I'm trying to get back into the swing of things. Hope you guys have all been well!


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